


Prologue

by Nilhenwen



Series: Modern [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Javert, Coffee, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Javert/Jean Valjean, Explicit Language, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Modern Retelling, Slow Burn, Valjean BAMF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9084226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilhenwen/pseuds/Nilhenwen
Summary: “Valjean, Jean. No. 24601, sentenced to nineteen years for armed theft with intent to harm. Remission of sentence to fourteen years for good behaviour. Released 4th September 2016, after eleven years on prisoner-requested parole. Granted release upon the terms of tri-weekly meetings for two months then as deemed necessary for duration of repealed sentence.”
    Finally, the man looked up from the documents spread on the table before him. His eyes were an icy blue that shot straight through Valjean’s spine; made him sit straighter in his chair. He was familiar.  Modern AUTime changes things - in more ways than one.Now heavily edited!





	1. Week 1, 2 & 3

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Glory Road](https://archiveofourown.org/works/697650) by [Magnetism_bind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind). 



**Toulon - 2016**

The gates reared their bleak, barbed heads before him. His footsteps faltered. He had promised himself he would not do this. He paused on the edge of the pavement, allowing himself a moment, a breath. Perhaps he expected too much of himself. Perhaps it was only natural for one to feel this way?

He huffed a breath and pushed onwards to the small pedestrian entrance beneath the watch tower, ignoring the goosebumps rising upon his flesh. The sky was as dark as the metal of the gates above him; Toulon was not fair this time of year.

He flashed his card to the guard who did not even stretch himself to nod in response, but opened the next door for him regardless. A klaxon sounded his arrival. With a brisk step he entered.

The prison swallowed him.

 

~+~ Week One ~+~

 

“Valjean, Jean. No. 24601, sentenced to nineteen years for armed theft with intent to harm. Remission of sentence to fourteen years for good behaviour. Released 4th September 2016, after eleven years on prisoner-requested parole. Granted release upon the terms of tri-weekly meetings for two months then as deemed necessary for duration of repealed sentence.”

Valjean sat quiet and listened to his familiar fate read to him in the detached tone of his new parole officer. His gaze lay steady upon the man’s sharp features, his face blank but beneath the table his fingers scratched at already torn skin around his nails.

Finally, the man looked up from the documents spread on the table between them. His eyes were an icy blue that shot straight through Valjean’s spine; made him sit straighter in his chair. He was familiar. “This is all familiar to you?” There was no trace of boredom in the man’s tone, only an unfaltering directness.

He nodded, tried to speak but had to clear his throat, then, “Yes.”

“You seem nervous.”

Valjean paused, regarded the man a moment more. “I am.”

“Why?” Valjean was certain the man had not blinked since their exchange had begun.

“This is my first parole meeting. I’m not sure what to expect.”

“Why would you be nervous about that?”

The question grated on Valjean. It was irreverent; dismissive. He pressed his teeth together. He did not want to antagonise his parole officer so soon. It did not go unnoticed by the measured man opposite.

“I am back in the prison where I spent the last eleven years of my life locked away.” It seemed like the truth was the best answer. “You’ll forgive me if I’m a little on edge. This isn’t my favourite daytrip destination, Monsieur...?”

A perfectly arched eyebrow slowly rose. A moment before he got, “Javert.” Clipped.

“Monsieur Javert.” He forced a smile to his lips and clasped his hands beneath the table to force them to stop fidgeting.

“Indeed.” The man’s eyes dropped back to the documents. They were copies of Valjean’s papers, stretching as far back as his trial and sentencing. The pages were covered in neat, ordered annotations and laid out in precise chronological order.

  _I guess it’s nice that he’s done his homework_ , Valjean thought to himself.

“Unfortunately, this prison will be a regular destination for you during the course of this month,” Javert barked leaning back from his perusal of the papers into the uncomfortable embrace of the cold iron chair. He wore a neat, simple suit in a deep navy. It framed his shape, met his dark hair and blue eyes with a studied elegance. Slim, tapered and strong.

“You mean we’ll be meeting here for the rest of my parole?” Valjean questioned, unable to keep the blanch from his face or the discomfiture from his voice.

“No, of course not.” Javert opened a manila file and lifted a pen. “The prison doesn’t have the resources to nurse every paroled delinquent back to lawful reform.”

Valjean blinked in surprise at the comprehensive vocabulary of the answer, blurted at him as though it was the time of day. “Umm,” he ineloquently murmured, “so where-?”

“-Here for the first two weeks. After that, an appropriate location of my choosing.” Javert removed the lid sharply from the pen and began to write in the notebook on his right. The man’s hands were large, fingers long and elegant like a musician’s. A faraway part of Valjean’s mind thought it was strange that they should belong to such a cold, artless man.

“Okay.”

“These meetings are your agreement with the state. If you fail to attend these meetings there will be severe consequences. You must not be late to these meetings. Should failure to attend happen on more than one occasion, there is the distinct possibility that you will be re-incarcerated within the facility for breaking parole.” Javert raised his eyes from the page. His back was straight, arm moving at an extension from himself, seeming separate from him. Valjean’s fingers tightened around his hands. It seemed the man needed something back from him and so he gave a crisp nod. Javert’s eyes returned to the notebook. “Further conditions of the parole you have been granted are that you find suitable employment within a reasonable amount of time, or show evidence of some such effort. Also, twenty hours per week of community service – of your choosing - and finally, I hope needless to say,” he glanced up “that you commit no further crimes.”

“Of course.”

“Do you have any questions?”

Valjean watched him. He would not be intimidated. He forced himself to breathe; to remember that he had done nothing wrong since his release; in reality, in his lifetime. He had no reason to fear the man sitting across from him. He did not want Valjean to return to prison? He was on his side? Valjean waited for the man to look up. When their eyes met, he decided he was not so sure after all.

“I have a great number of questions.”

 

~+~ Week Two ~+~

 

“Is this what you always wanted to do?”

Javert’s eyes leapt sharply to Valjean’s face. “... Pardon?”

 “Did you always want to work in law enforcement?”

His question utterly threw Javert. His pen paused, suspended above the page for the first time in the last hour. Their eyes locked. Valjean had the distinct sensation of being body-searched without a single touch. The man was looking for motive, searching for a trick. His eyes were biting; intense.

“Coffee?” The hoarse voice of the waitress jolted Javert from his silent search. Confusion read on his face for a split second before flitting away.

“Thank you,” Valjean answered with a warm smile, taking the proffered cup. She gave him a dazzling smile and walked away with a newfound flounce. He set the cup on the table between them and wrapped both his hands around the warm ceramic. His attention returned to Javert, interest still kindled. “Are you sure you don’t want something?”

Javert had not moved far from his previous position; only relaxed the pen. At his silence, Valjean clarified.

“A coffee or-“

“-No.”

Valjean’s eyes traced for a moment over Javert’s body. How the man was wearing only his shirt on a day as cold as this was a mystery to him. It was October now and a cold wind blew in off the sea and swept through the narrow Toulon streets even on the brightest of days. He shrugged his shoulders inside his cosy jumper and took a sip of coffee. A mystery.

“So, did you want to do this growing up?” Valjean prompted when it seemed as though Javert had forgotten the question. He was frustrated. For two weeks he had seen his parole officer almost every day. Still the man was blank and remote. He thought Javert was not going to answer him, then;

“I didn’t want to be anything growing up.” It had tumbled out of Javert’s mouth before he could catch it.

The answer weighed heavily on Valjean’s brow. He caught something flickering in Javert’s face just then, something he hadn’t seen in the past two weeks. The man’s own words seemed to have caught him on the back foot, his had face lost its hard detached quality and opened to reveal something Valjean could not yet read.

“What do you mean?”

 “Nothing.” This time the answer was sharp and fast and almost angry.

Valjean carefully regarded the officer as he returned to his notes with new vigour. He took another sip of his coffee. Wondered what the man was writing about. Although Javert had denied him, he had not yet returned to the stern glare that normally held residence in the chiselled features. That strange quality that Valjean could not place was still present, lurking beneath his dark eyebrows. Interesting.

The noise in the cafe around them was loud enough to allow private conversation, but not obnoxiously so. The smell of rich Parisian coffee muffled the air. Passers-by threw shadows across the two as they crossed outside the window. A few brave coffee drinkers defied the onslaught of winter and sat at the terrace tables outside, backs to the strange pair.

 “If you didn’t want to be anything how did you find yourself in this line of work?”

“Enough.” Valjean was surprised at the remonstrance. Not because of its immediacy but because of its tired, resigned quality rather than the cutting rebuke he had fully expected. This time Javert’s eyes rose tiredly from the page and his body slumped – almost too little to notice, but Valjean did. “We’re here to talk about you, not me.”

It was the first human sentence that Valjean had heard come from his lips. He felt a thrill at the knowledge that he had ushered it forth. He smiled. “I think I prefer to talk about you for a change. We’ve been meeting for two weeks and I know nothing more about you than your name.”

“And you need know no more than that,” Javert replied, his voice strangely low, eyes evasive as they scanned the cafe for the first time since they had arrived.

“You seem uncomfortable,” Valjean observed.

Javert’s eyes landed on him and steadied.

“This week your allotted community service will be at _Veille Darse_ , the main harbour.”

 

~+~ Week Three ~+~

 

“What did you do before you became a parole officer?” Valjean questioned, leaning forward.

The cafe was much quieter today. A heavy rain fell outside and splattered the windows periodically when a gust of wind would catch the unsuspecting droplets, spraying them across the glass.

Javert sighed. He had become more accustomed to Valjean’s curious questioning. He could not quite fathom the man’s interest in him. He found it unsettling. He watched the smooth planes of Jean Valjean’s face, barely touched by time regardless of his eleven year lease of a prison cell. “Lots of different things.”

Three weeks and the man had done nothing. Nothing wrong that is. Not only had he been early for every meeting, waiting for Javert in the prison library or sheltering beneath the cafe awning but he had also been exceeding his weekly community service requirement by several hours every day. Javert was certain Jean Valjean was up to something.

“Did you ever work at the prison in _La Farlède_?” Valjean furthered, leaning even closer across the table. He scanned Javert’s face, searching for something he seemed certain he would find if only he looked hard enough.

Javert’s eyebrows lowered. There; he knew he was up to something. “It’s not your concern.”

“You did, didn’t you? I remember you-“

“-It doesn’t matter if I did or I didn’t. We have to discuss-“

“-We have to discuss this,” Valjean forced, his open palm pressing to the table between them. Javert had not seen such intensity in his soft, autumnal eyes; now burning. “I remember you.”

“There are thousands of personnel in _La Farlède_ ,” Javert shrugged “it could have been any one of them you remember.”

“I would not forget your face.”

There was a beat. Their eyes met again for the thousandth time but something new passed between them. In that instant they saw each other for what they were, or at least understood each other for what they each had been.

Javert felt in that instant there was no longer any point in lying. “It was many years ago.”

“And I have had many years with little to think on but my surroundings, bland as they were.” Valjean’s intensity did not lessen and his voice remained solid, demanding; as effective as if he had reached out and held Javert’s head between his large palms. _They would be soft, somehow_ , Javert thought.

Valjean watched him as he tried to struggle around the question, unsure of what to say for the first time in almost a month of meetings, of impersonal coffees, note-taking and dictates. “It is irrelevant.” He settled on. Valjean looked cheated. They both knew it was a lie.

Valjean sat back into the chair. He kept his arms folded on the table between them.

Javert found a wariness replacing the usual open honesty in the man’s eyes. It seemed that this piece of information, this sliver of memory had changed Valjean’s measure of him. Javert had not forgotten. Jean Valjean - even dehumanised and reduced to a number - was hard to forget.

When Valjean offered nothing, Javert breathed in a sigh but rather than releasing the breath instead offered; “If it is an issue for you, you are well within your rights to request someone else to-“

“-No,” with a measured shake of his head; assertive. His eyes remained glazed in reverie, though with a hardness to them Javert had not seen since his incarceration. “You were never cruel.”

Javert was taken aback. “I should hope not.”

“Others were.”

Another moment. Often their silences shared more than their words, brought them closer to a mutual understanding than any uttering could ever achieve.

“I know.” Javert’s voice was thick with a truth he had not thought to admit. The cruelty of  the guards was no secret within the walls of _La _Farlède__ , but the incidents were never recorded and the perpetrators never exposed. He had never been able to tolerate blatant rule breaking, never mind mindless cruelty. He found his head lower in something akin to shame; it made him feel ill. A shame for the system he lived by. A failing that was his own by proxy. By oath.

“It’s alright,” Valjean relaxed. His interest seemed to return to the cafe, his mind no longer lost in the past.

Javert wanted to say, _It isn’t_ , but he wanted the conversation to end more, so he pressed his lips together and dropped his eyes back to his notes instead.

“Why did you leave?”

He should have known it would not be that easy to derail his new charge. “For that exact reason,” he said over a sigh.

“You didn’t think to change it?”

Javert breathed derisively through his nose. “I tried,” he said.

“And then gave up?” Valjean was accusing with this, his arms folded protectively against his chest. His shoulders were tense.

“I couldn’t change the whole system on my own.”

“Why not?”

“You know very well why not. If you insist on asking questions, don’t ask stupid ones,” Javert asserted. “One man can’t change the world.”

“Not if he thinks like that.”

Jean Valjean was far too inspirational for someone who had just left prison.

“Anyway,” Valjean continued, “it wasn’t the world; just one penitentiary.”

“Perhaps once you have completed your parole, you can make it your life’s work,” Javert bit back, tired of Valjean’s sermonising. “Assuming you stay on the right side of the law this time.”

“Perhaps, I will, Javert,” Valjean said, with no hint of sarcasm. It was the first time he had addressed him so informally. He glanced out the window into the rain.

 “Things take time,” Javert rebuffed. People were bent double with their umbrellas against the wind.

“Too long. More than eleven years apparently.”

Javert studied him. He was not certain how he had been drawn into such a debate. He did not appreciate it; almost felt fooled, goaded into a fight. Yet deep inside his gut, a thrill twisted, beneath the anger, burning away the derision that could have clothed his responses and replaced it with consideration.

He raised a hand to his hair running his fingers along his scalp, threading his hair between them. It was too long; a couple of inches of length and quite thick, a gentle wave; it was starting to get in his way. As long as Valjean’s. He took that as a failure and frowned. Swiped it to the other side.

“You confuse me,” Valjean murmured. It was close and soft and made Javert feel their conversation had turned strangely intimate. “You stand up for this country’s laws and justice and yet I don’t feel like you truly believe in it.”

“I believe in it. More than anything.”

“You give your life to it.” It’s not an accusation but it is close.

“... Yes.” Javert carefully considers before answering. Valjean is not the kind of man who will forget what has been said.

“But you also agree that there is change to fight for.” Valjean leant forward again, this time taken with a new energy, his elbows rocked the table slightly, his coffee lipping over the edge of his mug, sloshed down the side of the white porcelain.

“The system is not perfect but without it we would be nothing.”

“Yes but its imperfection is a problem; not something to be noticed and noted and then forgotten about!” Valjean said, his voice rising.

“We’re beginning to talk about different things,” Javert warned, lowering his voice and glancing around the cafe. They had drawn no one’s attention, regardless of Valjean’s passionate dialogue. The waitress busied herself at the coffee machine, humming to herself. The other patrons were too far away to take any notice.

“I think not.”

“If what you’re talking round to, is that you were wrongly accused-“

“- That’s not what I’m talking about,” Valjean spat with a dismissive throw of his head to the side. “As true as it may be the discussion is irrelevant now. I’ve done my time.”

“Not yet.” Javert looked back at Valjean; staring down the barrel of a gun.

“You’ve read my file,” Valjean said, his voice dangerously low. Their conversation was intimate now in an entirely different way. “In fact you’ve probably memorised it.” He could read Javert well; thorough, to the point of fixation. “You know my sentence was harsh.”

Valjean searched his eyes for something; anything that would give away Javert’s thoughts, hands clenched into fists where his arms folded on his chest. His lips a thin line.

“It is not my place to discuss your senten-“

“This isn’t a court room. This isn’t on record.”

“It is on record,” Javert raised his eyebrows, gesturing to the documents spread between them on the table.

“Are you trying to tell me you’re going to write down what we’ve talked about on official documents?” Valjean regarded Javert from beneath his eyebrows. His coffee lay cold, abandoned, spilt upon the table. “I got screwed by a judge with an agenda.”

Javert frowned, wondering how they had sallied into such troubled waters. “What do you want me to say?”

Valjean paused, unblinking. Then something shattered his gaze and his eyes fled to outside, landed upon the rain soaked pavement. “Sometimes the law is the most unjust thing in the world.”


	2. Week 4

~+~ Week Four ~+~

 

There was mud everywhere. The ground was a quagmire, the vibrant soil turned to mush beneath their backing and forthing feet. Mud was splattered up the legs of his jeans, brushed above the tops of his boots, his once-white t-shirt now resembling a poorly chosen tie-dye colour palette of browns and greys. His fingernails were black and his usually neat locks of hair were caked together. He dragged the back of his hand across his face, leaving a streak of breeze-block dust in an arc across his forehead.

The French weather was not doing much to help their progress with the new houses but they could not let a little fall of rain stop them; even if it was torrential. He smiled as a young student passed him with a sack of cement mix tossed on his shoulder.

Sweat sat upon his arms, stuck his already damp t-shirt to his body, defiant of the chill in the air. For once, there was no wind from the sea, or perhaps it was simply too weak to travel as far inland as the building site was. Either way Valjean was grateful that his face was not wind-scalded for once. He glanced around as the others continued to work around him. When he had heard his sentence of parole and community service his blood had boiled. Hadn’t he had given enough? Paid enough for an imagined crime? He thought of his conversation with Javert the week before; perhaps the man was right. Maybe the law was not wrong in so many things because this project which he had poured his sweat and soul and heart and hope into for so many weeks had given him a newfound sense of purpose and fulfilment. Never before had he felt so empowered; so able to make a change in the world. His helplessness had been replaced by pro-active positivity in a way he had never thought possible. For once, he was beating poverty rather than submitting to it. Something as simple as building a house, building a flat, building a home for someone without one was the most defiant way he could overcome his past. The realisation had come to him gradually; with each brick he had laid, each foundation he had poured and nail he had hammered. It would be several more weeks before the homes were ready to be fitted with electric and water, and more after that before they would be habitable. Something about that gave him a certain sense of security that he had not enjoyed for a long time. Took away the edge that usually thrummed in his bones; the inherent sense of unease that he felt he had been born with.

He checked his watch. Four-oh-five. Time. He glanced up through the grey day. A flurry of people wading through ankle-deep muck was between him and the road. His eyes found Javert’s form within the second; tall and still against the murky sky. Hands buried in the pockets of a long coat, collar turned up against the cold but the figure straight, refusing to bend even to the temperature.

He raised a hand, but knew Javert had already noticed his noticing. He began to wade his way through the muck towards the road. The driveway had not yet been set out and so the rise to the road was steep. Javert’s hand was out as he scaled the slippery slope. It was warm to Valjean’s touch.

“Sorry, my hands aren’t the cleanest,” he apologised, settling beside the man. Their hands were still clasped. He opened his hand to indicate that Javert had just grasped a mess, and then a moment after rather regretted it.

“I’ve seen worse,” Javert offered, replacing his undoubtedly dusty hand inside his pocket. “You seem to be making good progress.” His eyes drifted to the skeletons of the houses Valjean had left.

“We’re ahead of schedule but the bad weather will probably set us back over the next few weeks,” Valjean answered, hands on his hips and turning to survey the site.

“You’ve been instrumental in the planning process.” It was a statement but Valjean nodded anyway.

“Yeah, well they needed a project manager and I’ve always had a knack for such things,” he added, half a shrug.

Javert’s eyes left the workers and turned to Valjean. “I can tell,” he gave half a smile and the corners of Valjean’s mouth leapt in response. He wasn’t sure he had seen the man smile before. “You’re working overtime, Valjean.”

“I enjoy it. It’s not like work.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you want to talk in the office?” Valjean said, gesturing towards the metal shipping container they used as a planning office. Javert nodded and they moved down the road towards shelter.

 

~+~

 

Valjean’s boots left muddy footprints across the floorboard lino. The kettle rumbled ineffectively in the corner as it struggled to boil and Valjean set out two cups on the rickety table in the centre of the room. “It’s not exactly five star but its welcome when there is a downpour,” Valjean apologised.

“It’s strikingly similar to our offices; I feel right at home.”

Valjean was surprised as the laugh escaped his mouth. A smile and a joke? Had he broken the man?

He spooned some damp coffee into the two cups. He no longer needed to ask how Javert liked it. By the second week he had managed to convince him to have a cup of coffee; now he no longer had to ask.

“I’m glad I haven’t let you down then,” Valjean said with a smile curving his words.

“Quite the opposite,” Javert answered, gazing intently out of the window to the building site. He seemed unaware of his own words when Valjean turned to look at him in surprise.

The kettle rumbled to an eventual boil. Steam spilt out the top of the badly designed item as Valjean poured their coffee. His three quarters full with room for milk, Javert’s only half full, with an extra spoon of coffee. He gave them both a perfunctory stir before carrying them to the table.

The sound of the mugs on wood seemed to stir the officer from whatever thoughts he had succumbed to. He turned to the table with a murmured thanks and sat down. Valjean dragged a spinning office chair from one of the planning desks and drew it up to the table.

“Tell me about the building work then,” Javert encouraged, lifting the volcanic coffee to his lips and taking a slug that Valjean could not quite contemplate.

As Valjean spoke about the progress, Javert pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket not once removing his eyes from Valjean.

“Considering it took so long to get the funding in place, we’re making up for the delay quite well and everyone has been onboard with working a few extra hours here and there.” Valjean threw a glance out the open doorway. “They’re all good people.”

“The project won’t be finished in time for the end of your community service allocation,” Javert noted, underlining something.

“No, but I’ll see it through anyway I imagine,” Valjean answered, sipping at his coffee. He relaxed back in the chair, setting the warm cup in his lap. He noticed Javert noticing his watching and forced his eyes to slip out the door again.

 “And work?”

That broke the Valjean’s happiness like nothing else could. His eyebrows lowered and lines appeared across his brow aging him ten years in less than a second. His head drooped as he contemplated his coffee. “No.”

“What have you been trying?” Javert asked, his voice quiet in the room. The sound of building work continued, interspersed by the distant shouts of instruction between the helpers.

“Everything.” Valjean sighed and disconsolately discarded his coffee. “I’ve gone to the local job centre, I’ve been through the parole websites, I’ve even gone door to door in the town centre and...” he trailed off. A shrug of his shoulders Javert would have described as defeated. “... it’s such a small place. Everyone here knows.”

“They know because it’s on your record.” Javert pressed the top of the pen into the notepad beneath.

“They don’t even have to look that far. They know who I am as soon as I walk in the door.”

Javert sighed, righting the pen. “I know it’s difficult-“

“-No you don’t.” There was a steel in Valjean’s voice that Javert had only come across once before; a long time ago. It shot straight down his spine.

Javert did not respond. It was not a concession he would usually make. Valjean noticed even through his melancholy. “Just keep trying. It will come,” he offered.

“You don’t know that. I could spend the rest of my life-“

“-Don’t be melodramatic,” Javert cut, using some steel of his own. “The opportunity will come along. You must keep trying, no matter how disheartening.” Valjean did not react but Javert could tell he was listening. “It is what the law requires of you.” Valjean turned to glare. Javert was baiting him out of his self-pity. “Can you give me anything to record your attempts this week?”

Valjean heaved a heavy sigh, a nod directed to the floor. “I have emails printed. A search history as well – in my bag.” A thumb thrown over his shoulder. “I don’t have anything to prove I went door to door unless you want me to ask for CCTV,” he said sarcastically, standing.

Javert did not rise to the comment, instead folding the notebook and pen back inside his voluminous pocket.

“You want them now?” Valjean asked, his manner deflated.

A nod.

Valjean moved to a linen satchel discarded in the corner of the pokey office. He bent his lean frame to fish some papers from inside. His t-shirt clung to him with sweat and he could feel Javert’s eyes on his skin through the thin fabric. The pale stripes of scarred flesh that lay there, hidden from his gaze. Valjean turned back to him with hands full of papers, gave himself a small shake. “Here.”

“Thank you,” he cleared his throat, taking them and flicking through them quickly. Valjean was always meticulous in keeping a record of his activities. Not once had he failed to meet Javert’s requests.

“I am trying,” Valjean said, needing Javert to understand.

He stood, holding the papers by his side. “I am very aware,” he answered softly, soothing Valjean’s worry. “And I am writing it on all of your reports.”

Valjean was surprised to find understanding lying in Javert’s grey-flecked eyes. “It’s not enough though, is it? It’s not enough to just try; I have to get a job.”

“It is the ultimate aim but you are required only to do your best to gain employment. Nowhere does it say you must succeed within a certain time.”

Valjean nodded, accepting the reassurance. “You’re wearing a t-shirt today.”

Javert was unused to being caught off-balance. Valjean was making a habit of it. “I...”

“You’re normally in a suit. Is it Casual Tuesday?” he quipped, rakish smile dancing across his warm features.

 “I’m at a building site; I’m trying to appear inconspicuous.” He made it just in time.

 

~+~

 

He knew that he would not be able to avoid the conversation. He was not entirely sure why he wanted to but when he saw Valjean approaching across the cafe, he still turned his face to the window.

“You beat me today,” Valjean removed his brown field jacket and hung it on the chair. “Coffee is on me.” He waved to the waitress. They no longer had to give an order. She moved off to make two of their usual.

“I finished up earlier than expected this morning,” Javert explained, putting away the folder he had been working on as Valjean took his seat. He leant to set it on the chair beside him.

“Oh.” Valjean’s small noise of surprise raised a frown from Javert, displeased at having lost the game so soon. “What happened to you?” Valjean asked his voice askance.

Javert straightened to meet him. He held his head high, but his teeth ground together behind the unaffected expression. “I was punched in the face.”

Valjean blinked at the direct and unenlightening explanation. “Okay… Why?”

Javert could feel his eyes raking over his face, stopping at the bruise slowly purpling from the current angry red on his cheek, moving to the deep split in his lip. The man’s concern made him uneasy. Or warm? “One of my charges didn’t agree with me.”

“Are you okay?” Valjean leaned closer with each question, as though greater proximity would ensure Javert’s health. He felt the urge to lean closer himself. Which was precisely why he had been trying to avoid this conversation. It felt like wading into dangerous waters.

“I’m fine,” Javert reassured, sighing out a tense breath.

“And what happened to-“

“-He’s in hospital.”

Valjean nodded and sat back. Was he fighting a smile? “Remind me never to punch you in the face then.”

Javert huffed a disdainful breath. “You could take me down.” He froze instantly, brain registering his own words as though someone else had spoken them. He looked to Valjean quickly, brows dangerously low over his eyes. “What a foolish thing to say.”

Regardless of Javert’s concern, Valjean was not hatching a plot to tackle him to the floor within the next second but rather smiling openly now with amusement. “It’s fine. I have no intention of trying.”

“Forget I spoke.”

“Of course.”

Javert bristled, visibly distressed by his blunder. It was not that he truly believed that Valjean would leap upon him in the middle of the quiet cafe, bludgeon him to the ground and sprint out of the doorway into the sunset. And he had noticed the concealed strength hidden in the deep threads of Valjean’s arms and core many weeks ago. However in the weeks they had spent together Valjean had done nothing to intimate that his goal was to flout the system, or to disobey the court order; in fact the opposite. Valjean had exceeded the requirements of the court tenfold. Still, it was a bad idea to point out one’s physical inferiority to an ex-con.

“You would be able to catch me, I’ll bet,” Valjean broke through Javert’s flustered review of some papers.

“Pardon?” he pressed ice into his voice, but instead of being solid it was shaking.

“Your legs are twice the length of mine. You would catch me in three seconds flat, I would say,” Valjean mused with... was that appreciation in his voice? He had a mischievous smile spreading across his soft features beneath his beard and it sent something hot slithering down Javert’s spine. Had Valjean been looking at his legs as much as he had been looking at Valjean’s arms?

Hang on.

“I thought we weren’t discussing it?” Javert said, yanking his eyebrows into a disapproving frown.

“Well, we’re not,” Valjean answered, leaning forwards. Neither of them noticed the coffees being placed on the table, nor the eye-rolling waitress’s sigh. “We’re discussing you chasing me.” She glanced between the two of them as she left, unacknowledged.

Valjean watched Javert closely for a reaction, trying to read the man. Was he pushing too far? What was he even pushing for? Was he... flirting with his parole officer? He tried to resist the blush that he felt creeping up his cheeks at his own audacity but it came anyway. He hoped it wouldn’t be so noticeable beneath his beard. He swallowed, determined to maintain his calm exterior.

“Are you planning on running?” Javert asked, his voice quiet.

“Would you chase me?” Valjean raised an eyebrow.

A pause. “Yes.”

Something twisted in Valjean’s stomach. He swallowed. Then Javert’s eyes hardened.

“And then I would catch you, handcuff you and incarcerate you for breaking your parole.”

Valjean could not help his jaw falling open. He gritted his teeth together quickly to try to hide it. Either the man was playing hard to get or he was playing Valjean. But there had been a moment; Valjean was sure of it, when he had seen the man’s guard slip before a sliver of his self-awareness had returned just in time to catch himself staring into the gooey eyes of a paroled convict who was now, without a doubt, chatting him up.

“Stop trying to make this something other than professional,” Javert bit, his voice back to full volume, hard and heavy; commanding.

Valjean straightened, caught but not like a schoolboy; like a criminal. His nostrils flared as he sighed, teeth still locked together.

“But it is,” he said, his voice still low; this time not with intimacy but distaste. “It is entirely personal.” He glared across the table through the still-rising steam of their untouched coffee. “Nothing has ever been more personal. That piece of paper in your hand,” he motioned derisively, “will be with me for the rest of my life. You hold my future in your hands.  I belong to that piece of paper.”


	3. Week 5, 6 & 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, if you've read this fic before today (29th December) this isn't actually a new chapter. I've heavily edited this and I've also changed the chapter divisions. Things are different if you fancy another read, but it isn't brand new material.
> 
> Thanks to [iberiandoctor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane18/pseuds/iberiandoctor) for being my wonderful Alpha Reader and Consultant!

~+~ Week Five ~+~

 

Valjean was late to their next meeting. His heart thudded as Javert’s words from that first day rang in his ears. _Should you fail to attend... there is a distinct possibility that you will be re-incarcerated in the facility..._

He ran, rounding the corner at a dangerous speed, narrowly missing a young couple walking arm in arm down the street. It was a fair day, the winter sun slung low in the sky and casting everything in a burnt orange. The park was in sight, but he was meant to be there half an hour ago. His lungs burned, but not from running. The crowds of pedestrians seemed to thicken and melt together, making it almost impossible for him to twist between them. He could see the waving trees up ahead, bending in the wind to greet him. He spilled onto the road, dodging a lamp post and swallowing the yellow line beneath his feet as he sprinted ahead. A car horn blared but he was almost there. He twisted back into the crowd, across the pavement and towards the gate. He bolted through, throwing another alarmed glance at his wristwatch. It read the same time as when he had checked it twelve seconds before. His eyes scanned the open area, over the trickling fountain, past the green lawns and-

“Valjean.”

Valjean spun around. Javert stood directly behind him. How had he missed the man? He must have walked right past him, but the officer did not exactly blend into the crowd at over six feet tall and strikingly ferocious.

 “I’m sorry.”

Javert said nothing; he did not even nod. Valjean eyed the man’s face, trying to read the severity of the situation there. It was not the best judge, as Javert always looked as though an apocalypse was imminent.

“I’m sorry. Is this bad?” he spluttered, breath still coming in gasps. He was too hot in his jacket beneath the low winter sun. He followed Javert who had begun to walk at a casual pace down one of the less crowded paths.

“Well, you’re twenty eight minutes late,” Javert answered, his voice betraying nothing as Valjean matched stride with him.

“I know, I know I’m sorry,” he repeated, his shoulders tense as he felt the rough cotton of the prison uniform rub against his skin.

There was a pause. Valjean did not speak, too unsure of what to say, whether it would make this situation better or worse.

“You could have sent a text,” Javert offered off-hand.

Valjean scrabbled at it. “My phone was dead,” he hastened to explain. “I’m sorry.”

Javert simply nodded at his apology, his eyes scanning the ground ahead of them.

“What does this mean?” Valjean questioned, feeling his throat constrict in panic. “Is it more community service?” He was still out of breath. “More parole? Is it a black mark on my record?”

“It should certainly encourage a review in order to revise and potentially lengthen your parole requirements.”

“Goddamnit,” Valjean swore, but the itch of the prison shift eased.

“And it should go on your record as a missed meeting because of how late you are,” Javert added as though he were reciting his times tables; emotionless.

 _Are you a fucking machine?_ Valjean wanted to scream at him. _Are you nothing more than cold metal and wires?_ They had spent so much time together Valjean had thought they were coming to know each other. He thought perhaps Javert was coming to understand him as another human. Maybe more. Apparently not. Apparently he was still no more than a number.

He settled for “fuck” instead.

“It should go on your record,” he repeated, and Valjean waited for more of his sentence. He saw something flicker in Javert’s face; something that was not robotic at all. “...but it won’t” he shook his head.

Valjean stopped. “What?” There was an angry defiance in his voice that he had not felt until it bubbled from his mouth in the single syllable. It was enough to stop Javert.

He looked back. “It won’t because I’m not going to write it down.” Their eyes were locked together more ferociously than they ever had been.

“I’m sorry?” Valjean asked, almost frightened to question what he was hearing in case the tantalising possibility of what sounded like a reprieve disappeared. “You’re not going to record it?”

“No.”

“Why?” he asked, unable to stop himself. He closed the distance between them, unblinking.

“Because...” Javert struggled here. He struggled to avoid mindless platitudes and sickening amnesties. “I’ve decided not to,” he finished simply.

“... really?” It did not seem like Javert at all; to not write something down. To not keep impeccable track.

Javert seemed flustered by the constant questioning of his goodwill. His jaw tightened. "Would you prefer I changed my mind?" he bit.

"No," Valjean answered hastily. "Of course not."

"I don't believe that..." he trailed off. It was so unlike him to not know the end of his sentence before he started. "In comparison - in relation to how well you've followed the program so far, it doesn't make sense to record this. I don't believe you deserve to be punished for such a minor infraction considering how much... And I've had plenty of time to think about it, thanks to you."

Valjean felt a blush rising from his neck and hid his face in his scarf.

“Listen, Valjean, you must not be late again,” he said, his voice direct but somehow changed. Valjean dared to think that he heard fondness in the man's voice.

“Of course not, no” Valjean assured hastily.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Javert said. His voice was startlingly honest; bringing a softer tone to the usual imperative he offered. Jean felt himself take another small step closer, as though the barrier of personal space between them had lessened.

“I promise,” Valjean said and it was not empty. This was an unimaginable offering that he was still unwilling to grasp. It was possibly the most lenient reprimand he had been dealt in the last twelve years and it made his chest tighten uncomfortably and yet gloriously. Javert’s newfound kindness would not be forgotten. He began to explain, “It was my-“

“-it is irrelevant.” Javert stopped him without raising his voice. His hand however raised between them uncompromisingly.

Part of him wanted to ask the stern man what it was that had made him go soft. Jean could feel the difference in the air between them, even through Javert’s reliable stoicism. He wanted to tease him with a smile, bump shoulders and laugh in relief, but he knew this was a fragile truce. Whether it had been brought about by his words, or by his dedication, or dare he say by his hands and his smile, he did not want to throw it away upon an incautious wind for the sake of foolish merriment.

Javert moved to continue down the path. Valjean’s hand reached to his arm, placed there, just beneath the elbow. Heavy even through Javert’s warm wool coat. “Okay,” he assured. He pressed as much weight to the words as he could, allowing his fingers to close a little tighter around Javert’s forearm. “Thank you.”

The man nodded, jaw still tight but he could not quite seem to hide the pleased gleam in his eyes.

 

~+~ Week Six ~+~

 

Valjean could not sleep. He sat upon his bed, bare feet freezing where they rest on the bare floorboards. The blanket around him was thin, providing little more warmth than the jumper he shrugged deeper into.

As much fragile purpose as the building work brought him, a part of Valjean was beginning to bubble up and burn inside him. With each jobless day passing, burning like a brand on his skin, he found his dedication to looking for employment waning. With every raised hand and shook head that turned him away he felt something in his chest grow hotter and more urgent. The money he was given to live on was not enough for a dog to get by on. Now that the full force of France’s winter had arrived he was often forced to choose between heat or food for the evening. He was starting to lose count of the nights he spent shivering beneath a blanket, too cold to fall asleep. Sometimes his mind drifted, half in wakefulness and half asleep, to his time in prison beneath a coarse but warm woollen blanket with a full stomach. A place where he did not have to face the scowls and judgement of those who knew his misdeeds; those who had no idea what he had done or what his life had been like. But then he catches himself. And Valjean remembers the clinking of metal handcuffs and the endless, incomparable hours of senseless boredom forced upon him. Valjean remembers the sparse rooms, empty of everything but misery and the sensation of time pouring through his hands like grains of sand at a pace that he could no longer measure.

He was tired of not belonging to himself. He was tired of answering to a faceless adjudicator via forms and paperwork he had no part in completing.

His mind slipped to his parole officer. To Javert. His stomach dropped - a feeling that was becoming more and more familiar. The man was cold and soulless and yet. He frowned at the floor between his feet. The reprieve he had been granted for being late was the last thing he had expected. Was it possible the man was softening towards him too? There was no other explanation for his excusal.

He raised his hands to run through his hair. Occasional grey strands twisted where once only rich auburn had been. His fingertips were cold against his temples.

 

~+~ Week Seven ~+~

 

Javert knew that he should have known better.

The rain was pouring from angry heavens when he pulled up to the building site. With an unimpressed growl, he pulled his collar high and stepped out of the car into the downpour. Luckily, he had not needed to visit the offices today and so had swapped his usually neat suit for a more casual pair of dark jeans and heavy boots to keep the rainwater out. He was glad of his choice as he made his way across the quagmire towards the office.

A light burned dimly from the offices through the afternoon gloom, but after a moment he realised no one was inside. It appeared that everyone was outside in the rain, gathered together at the centre of the site. He had never seen the place so idle. His eyes scanned the crowd in an attempt to find a legitimate reason. It was then that he noticed the commotion rising from the group and his steps quickened. His eyes began to search for a very specific figure among the agitated outlines.

He pushed forwards through the mud, his ears straining to make sense of the noise wafting from the crowd. They were shouting, some jeering and some pleading. A woman’s voice rose high above the din, hitching breaths carrying pleas through the desperate weather.

Javert broke through the crowd, shoving people from his path. He broke into the circle they had formed, rain blurring his vision.

The shape that he had been searching for was kneeling in the mud, his hand fisted in the sodden shirt of another. Javert’s gut twisted. Two other men were slipping and sliding uselessly, trying to pull the brawling pair apart.

The man on the ground was growling obscenities into Valjean’s face, followed swiftly by a gob of bloody spit. Valjean’s fist drew back before pistoning into the pinioned man’s face with bone-cracking force. He had always had uncommon strength. Valjean’s fist drew back again. Javert knew another punch like that, and the man’s jaw would part from his face.

“Valjean!” he barked. His booming voice rose above the din and instantly quieted it.

The slipping and sliding security officers looked to him. Valjean froze, his fist still drawn back almost in mockery of an interrupted fight. Javert could not see his face. The other man’s was slack from the force of the last punch.

Javert did not wait for the spell to break. He leapt forward, grabbing hold of Valjean and bodily hauling him from the mud, from the man. Valjean’s body struggled against his for a moment, kicking against him but ceased when he regained his feet. Javert would not have been able to hold him if Valjean had decided he was not finished. “Stop this,” he hissed, jerking the man’s shaking torso, trying to shake him from whatever frenzy had caught him. The ex-con – because that is what he was and that is what he would always be – stayed rigid against him. Javert’s arms wrapped around him, one on his chest and the other restraining the posed right arm. Valjean jerked forwards again as if to lunge once more towards the man who was being lifted from the mud. Javert used Valjean’s own momentum and swung him to the muddy ground. “Enough!”

The splash of cold mud on the man’s face seemed to douse whatever aggression had risen in him. He rested there, upon his forearms in the rising rainwater, panting like an animal.

Javert regarded him for a moment, assessing whether he was still a danger. A silence had fallen over the group now, eerie and filled with significance. He could feel their eyes on him. They were all on parole. They all had their own keepers. They knew who he was. What this meant for Valjean. The only sound was of the lashing rain around them.

“Go home,” he ordered to the group. He did not spare a glance to them. Reluctantly they began to disperse. He looked up to the security guards who supported the beaten man between them. “Get him to the hospital.” His demand was not questioned. They left.

Valjean did not move. Javert stood his ground. Both were insensible to the rivulets of water tracing their faces.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Javert growled, glaring down at Valjean’s still heaving back. A moment, still. Then the convict pushed himself onto his knees, facing away from the man who threw him to them.

“You wouldn’t understand.” There was a darkness, a heaviness to Valjean’s voice that Javert had not heard before.

“You’re right, Valjean,” Javert’s voice was dark to match. “You’re right; I don’t understand this.”

“It means nothing.”

“To hell it does!” Javert yelled. He lunged forwards, anger burning through every vein.

 

~+~

 

Valjean felt Javert’s large hand wrapping around his forearm – nowhere near large enough to close upon it – and heave him upwards. Whatever anger the man was feeling had seemed to intensify his strength as he forcibly lifted Valjean from the mud. For a moment Valjean thought he was being pulled towards the officer and his clenched chest dared to loosen with hope but then strong arms flung him away again. He stumbled through the gutters of mud and caught his balance, held himself unsteadily beneath the rain.

“Get into the fucking office, Valjean!”

His feet took him there, through the disorientating buzz of fury which still rode high in his veins. He could feel the officer’s eyes, normally ice cold now searing through his soaking clothes from behind. So different from the last time. His mind was a fug of fury and confusion. His jaw ached from where his teeth had been clenched together. It felt as though every fine hair on his back, where they had not been whipped from his skin, stood on end like deadly spines.

The bright, fluorescent light made him squint. The winter day had grown dark without his noticing. The smell of the office was heavy and stale. Old cups of half-drank coffee lay scattered across the rickety table where they had sat only a week before. They rattled when Javert slammed the door closed behind him.

Valjean awaited his condemnation. But no words came. He turned slowly.

Javert’s eyes would have stripped him bare where he stood had it not been for the protection he gained from his own brand of rage. No reproach came.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Valjean growled. He was no longer willing to await Javert’s convenience to speak.

“You have no fucking idea.”

This time the profanity jarred on Valjean.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a goddamn child.”

“Then don’t act like one.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about-“

“-Well I would love for you to explain.” Javert took a step nearer.

“That man was screwing us all over. He was using this site for his own profit.”

“What do you mean?” Javert’s confusion barely rose high enough above his anger to be voiced.

“Felipe was a buyer – he was buying in the materials each month as we needed them. He has a goddamn degree in surveying and construction or some shit. Well, he knew all too well what he was doing; he’s been buying in – with government money – more materials than we actually need and then selling them on for his own profit before they even reach the site.” Valjean ran a dirty hand through his hair leaving trails of mud behind. “I wouldn’t even have noticed if I hadn’t checked the dispatch notes by pure chance tonight.”

Javert listened impatiently, shaking his head before Valjean could even finish. “So you decided to beat the living shit out of him in front of everyone on site?”

“No, I tried to confront him in private and he tried to run.” Valjean began to move from foot to foot, energy still thrumming through him.

“And where did you think he was going to go that you had to heroically run him down like a dog?”

“Why? Were you going to catch him?” He turned, agitated, beginning to pace.

“No – his own parole officer was!”

“Don’t give me that shit, Javert.”

Javert stepped closer to him, forcing him to still. “Don’t think for a second,” voice dark, “that I wouldn’t find you if you ran.” Their eyes locked again, unmatched intensity in the bond. “I would not stop until I had hunted you down, arrested you and brought you in. The same goes for that man.”

“I don’t think everyone in the prison service has your job dedication,” Valjean growled back.

“You are not the law, Jean Valjean.” A step closer. A hand raised. “You do not get to dole out punishments.”

“And what a pity that is – I think I could do a hell of a lot better than the courts. At least then the right people would be punished.”

“It is not as simple as you wish-“

“-Forgiveness is the simplest thing in the world.” A step forward, Valjean pressed close. Close enough to push his broad chest against Javert’s raised hand. A challenge.

“Forgiveness is not justice.” Valjean felt the hand turn; flattened to lie across his breastbone. The pressure grew, steadily forcing his retreat. “And you do not deserve it after tonight.”

“You have no idea what its like,” Valjean began to press forwards against Javert’s hand. He felt the warmth of the man’s fingers burning through his soaked, paper-thin t-shirt. “To struggle every day to live, to have a normal life!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” and this time there was a warning in Javert’s voice like Valjean had never heard before. A sonorous rumble that rose from the depths of the man’s soul. “Don’t pretend to know me.”

“Like you pretend to know me?” This time Valjean stepped decisively forward, shoved Javert’s hand – and the rest of him – back towards the door with unmatched strength.

“You think I have never struggled?” came the answer. His stride closed the fresh distance between them, apparently undeterred. His breath was hot on Valjean’s face. Valjean raised his own hand, placed it against Javert’s chest. He felt the man’s shallow breaths.

“Hardly-“ he pushed.

“-Because I work for the law?” Hands rose; circled Valjean’s biceps. Touching him.

Valjean shoved back a second time. Javert dragged him along. Fingertips tightened further around arms. Not quite encircling.

“Yes!” as he forced Javert against the door. Valjean’s palm still flat against his chest. Touching him.

Valjean flattened him bodily against the wall. It caused a pause. Hyper-awareness stung them both in the same moment as Valjean’s body pressed itself into Javert’s. Their chests heaved against each other. Their hands felt the heat rise from each other. Their eyes stayed locked to each other. Valjean’s leg was pressed between Javert’s. His hard thigh was warm and powerful. Their hips were flush. Javert tried to push Valjean off but he was too strong. He slammed him back against the door.

“You’re wrong,” Javert’s throat so tight it was barely above a whisper.

Then their lips were together. Neither moved first. Perhaps neither moved at all. But their lips moved against each other with the same fire that they had argued with seconds before.

Javert pulled away. Valjean met his eyes and saw fear. “My mother was a whore,” Javert gasped. “She was in prison when I was born.” It was filled with anger. An attack, though it seemed to hit Javert instead.  

Valjean had moved to take another kiss but froze. The unheralded words seeped into his mind. Before he could properly absorb them Javert stole his lips in another bruising kiss. Elegant fingers slid into his wet hair from the base of his neck; twisted there. From that moment, he could think only of the way Javert’s body pressed against his, the way it began to relax against him. Heat of a different kind flared between his legs and he felt himself groan into Javert’s warm mouth. In response, he felt the silken weight of the man’s tongue press between his lips and caress his own. The fingers in his hair curled, a touch of teeth reminding of the anger that had led them here. He sucked it deeper, unwilling to let it go. He pressed his hips forward into the other man; felt the shiver that ran through him in response, from head to thigh. Their kiss was unyielding but their embrace a mutual cradling.

They parted for breath. Reluctantly. Breathlessly. Forcefully.

“You were born in jail.” It was not a question.

Javert felt like he had never really left.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote "Prologue" at the top of the page when I started this. Hilariously, it turned out over 10,000 words long, which was not originally my intention. I have a colossal amount of story still to tell after this. I also hadn't intended to post anything until it was all written, however this, I think, stands alone quite well anyway. So here we are. 
> 
> In other news, if anyone is interested in some SPaG beta work, I'd be all over that. 
> 
> Thanks to [iberiandoctor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane18/pseuds/iberiandoctor) for being my wonderful Alpha Reader and Consultant! 
> 
>  
> 
> This fic was to a large extent inspired by one of my favourite modern AUs in the fandom - 'Glory Road' by magnetism_bind


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